My Fair Lady
by Moronic Linen
Summary: Grell, sent to reap Mr. Mandalay's soul, meets his loyal puppet servant Drocell Keinz.  Eventually a Grell/Drocell story.  Written by two different people.
1. Chapter 1

Grell exited the maze of London's streets, the setting sun lighting up the town behind him in a blazing inferno, and began making his way to the outskirts where the old Mandalay estate lay, fuming. Earlier in the day, he had shown up at work late, and Will had hurled his death scythe mercilessly at him as he walked in. Grell's precious red jacket from Madam Red had been torn apart. Will had adamantly refused to replace it before shoving Grell's assignment into his hands and walking out. The very nerve of him!

Grell's current task was to reap and collect the soul of old Mandalay. Mandalay had gone crazy after his wife had drowned in the ocean on a cruise and was put into an asylum by his children. His soul was meant to be taken many years later, but the circumstances had changed when he had escaped from the asylum the night before. He had made his way through London towards the Mandalay estate, slowly, but surely, screaming for his wife. By morning he had already made it out of London, and due to Grell's usual tardiness and general incompetence at performing his job, he was not stopped before he reached the estate.

As Grell approached the old mansion that was only a shadow of its former grandeur, a distinct sound began to reach his ears. It appeared to be a voice that was slowly dying out. The words were slightly incoherent and came out jaggedly at irregular intervals, but Grell could still make out the sweet, tender tone of the notes. Even so, the song still seemed to have a sorrowful tinge that haunted him. He stopped on the rough, dirt path for a moment, transfixed.

"—fair lady. London Bridge is falling down… falling… down… fal… ling down…"

Suddenly, Grell had an inexplicable urge to find out who was singing. He tore through the mansion, peering hurriedly into all the rooms, and, finding that each one was empty, rushed on. At last, he came to the stairwell leading to the attic. Here, Grell could hear the words most clearly, but the voice was weaker that when he had first heard it outside. He raced up the stairwell, reached a small landing, flung open the wooden door before him, and stepped in.  
>He slowly closed the door behind him.<p>

It was dark; and very so. The darkness even prevented Grell from seeing his hand inches from his face, so he fumbled blindly into the darkness.

"Mr. Mandalay? No use hiding, I shall find you anyways. Might as well step out near the door, where I can see you." Grell sniffed, leaning heavily against his chainsaw. "Come now, Mr. Mandalay, I am a very busy woman."

"…is…falling…down…" came a whisper. Grell jumped and gave a very dignified shriek, leaping back and frantically feeling for the door. His hand firmly grasped the handle and he tugged on it frantically. The door was shut tightly, and Grell gave an angry snarl as he continued to beat on the door. He heard a strange rustle behind him, such as a person moving, and he slammed his entire body against the door a final time.

"No! Don't eat me!" he begged, his hands rising to cover his face. In reality, he had no idea where is attacker was, or even if there was an attacker, but it was his natural reaction after so many years spent with William to quickly protect his (beautiful) face if he was threatened.

"My fair lady," came a whispered reply. Grell could feel the words gently trail off, as if someone had fallen asleep singing. Grell slowly lowered his hands.

"Mr. Mandalay?"  
>"You know of my master?"<p>

Grell jumped as he felt the voice speak behind his back. He reached behind him, stopping when his hands stroked something smooth and cold.

"You certainly aren't Mr. Mandalay," he muttered, his fingers lightly trailing across smooth clothes and cold skin. He turned to face the figure. "Regardless of who you are, let me out of this room, this instant!" Grell demanded, his hand lashing out and grabbing the man's throat. He squeezed mercilessly, choking the man and digging into him with sharp nails.

He was surprised to feel, under his fingers, not soft, warm flesh, but cold, hard porcelain.

"You know of my m-master," the voice came again, soft and fluttering, trailing off into a deep sigh. "My master is not well."

"Obviously, genius, I was sent here to kill him," Grell snapped. "Who are you?"

"I am Drocell Keinz," the broken figure before Grell croaked out.  
>Drocell, hmm? Very well, Mr. Keinz. Where is Mr. Mandalay?" Drocell was silent, and Grell tapped his foot impatiently. "Get on with it, you useless idiot, and turn on the lights. Spit it out, or I shall have to use force."<p>

Drocell wordlessly lit a candle, and Grell squinted through the dim light to better see Drocell's face.

He was a young man, perhaps his mid twenties. His head hung down, his eyes cast on the floor, and he glanced at Grell every so often through his pale blond eyelashes. "I…I should not tell a stranger where my master is," Drocell murmured, his white gloved hands fidgeting with the candle he held. Grell placed his hand on his hip, waiting for Drocell to continue. Drocell hunched his shoulders shyly. "No strangers…they might hurt him. He is not well."

"Drocell," Grell said, his patience wearing thin. He lifted the chainsaw and placed it delicately under Drocell's chin. "I will not hesitate to kill you and find your master myself. Tell me where he is."

"My life has no meaning. Kill me, if you'd like. I will not betray my master. I am his butler; forever by his side. Your threats are pitiful and meaningless," Drocell said blatantly. Grell felt Drocell push lightly on the chainsaw, moving it away from his neck.

"Excuse me?" Grell gaped, his hand going to his mouth. The very nerve of this man; to insult him while he had his very life in his hands. Drocell was either stupid or suicidal. "Say that to my face! You disgusting-" Grell's rage got the better of him. He brought the weapon high over his head, swinging it down over Drocell. He expected Drocell to succumb to the violence, to finally break down and reveal his master's whereabouts, to run away, to react, but Grell was shocked to find Drocell staring fearlessly at Grell, his pale blue eyes meeting Grell's vibrant green ones.

"I have already told you, I'm not afraid of death."

Grell huffed, lowering the weapon, gritting his teeth. "You're a brazen little fellow, aren't you? Not afraid of a Grim Reaper? You care about your master more than yourself." Grell flashed a sharp-toothed smile at Drocell, who quietly looked at the floor. He took Drocell's chin in his hand and forced his head upwards, his eyes meeting his. "Tell you what; if you tell me where your master is, his death will be quick and painless. If I have to torture you to get an answer or kill you and find him myself, he will suffer for your foolish folly. What do you say, Drocell Keinz? Will you cooperate with me?"

"You will make my master suffer?" Drocell said, his quiet voice rising in small crescendo as panic flashed in his dull eyes. "You will kill him either way?"

"His death is inevitable. If I do not kill him myself, his soul could be lost or stolen by a stray demon."

"He…" Drocell hung his head. "Is there anything I can do to save him?" he breathed.

"Hah! You're rather cute, I like you. So loyal; you're a brave little puppet to your master, indeed you are." Grell said affectionately, ruffling Drocell's pale orange hair. Drocell trembled. "No, there is nothing you can do. He's going to die. You can, however, decide if you want to die with him. Come now, just tell me; I would hate to have to slice through your pretty body and leave your corpse here."

"I will tell you where my master is if you promise to end his suffering as painlessly as possible," Drocell murmured, bowing his head. "But…if I may ask, Mr. Grim Reaper, I would like to make a request."

"Ooh, 'Mr. Grim Reaper'? I rather like that name; fits me well," Grell grinned, pleased at Drocell's respectful title. "But I would not mind you calling me 'Grell,' either. Yes, I will end him quietly and painlessly if you tell me where he is and you unlock this door. Let me hear your request before I agree to anything."

"If…if I tell you where he is, I want you to kill me, too." Drocell said shyly, his hands grasping at his blue coat. "I don't want to live without him, and I don't want to live with the guilt of knowing a betrayed him. Please, Mr. Grell, if you would be so kind…" Drocell raised his head, studying Grell's shocked expression carefully. "Kill me with my master."

"Er…I…I don't see why not…" Grell coughed, turning his head. He faced the painting on the wall, pretending to look at it, while out of the corner of his eye, he studied Drocell closely, taking in the miserable look on his face. "I…I could kill you if you'd like. You are not human, are you? I'm not supposed to kill humans that are not on the To-Die List—not that it hasn't stopped me before—but since you are obviously not human, there is no restriction." Grell said gently, drawing his thumb across Drocell's cheek, feeling the cold, hard porcelain underneath. Drocell batted his hand away.

"I do not like to be touched."

"What are you?"

"I…I am…I don't know," Drocell admitted, hanging his head in shame. "What are you waiting for, Mr. Grell? Kill me now, and I want you to make me suffer. Then, kill my master, as you must, and make it painless."

For a moment, Grell was silent, stunned by the complete and utter selflessness of the being that currently stood before him. Then, he recovered himself enough to muster up a typical Grell response.

"Well, I'm not making any promises until you show me where you're hiding Mandalay," Grell huffed.

Drocell stared at him with his glassy, sorrowful eyes. "Come this way." he finally replied. He took a step forward with a horrible creaking sound as his broken joints struggled to work properly. Drocell paused, as if that single step has drained him of all his energy. Then, he shuffled awkwardly on, stopping every few steps to rest. Grell had half a mind to just pick up the poor man.

After quite some time, Grell found himself in what appeared to be the kitchen. Here, the fading remnants of the sun's rays filtered through the windows shattered from weather and old age and lit up the room. For the first time, Grell got a clear look at Drocell. He had a blue fleur-de-lis under his right eye and wore a top hat decorated with a scarlet ribbon (that Grell was rather partial to) and grey feathers. His assemblage reminded Grell vaguely of a toy soldier or puppet.

"He is here," Drocell said, pulling open the door to the pantry and stepping in. Grell entered and saw an old, balding man that he presumed was Mandalay sprawled over some bags of flour, snoring in ignorant bliss, unaware that he and his soul would soon be departing from the world. The senile lunatic had quite a wide girth and fairly toppled over himself when Grell nudged him slightly with the handle of his death scythe, but the poor fool remained in his dreamland and did not wake.

Grell sniffed with disdain. "Hmm, it looks like I'll be putting him out of his misery. No use in beating around the bush." He raised his chainsaw over his head, preparing to finish the job in one quick, painless motion, but then things got a hell of a lot more complicated.


	2. Chapter 2

Suddenly, Grell felt himself being jerked out of the kitchen away from Mandalay. He was thrown into the opposite wall with such unexpected, brutal force that he lay on the grimy tile floor, momentarily stunned. Then, he was pulled up yet again and went flying, this time at the stove, and he feinted injury, groaning and rubbing his head, but in reality, Grell was perfectly fine and had already caught on to what was happening. He decided to have a little fun.

The next time he felt a tug again, he shrieked girlishly and flung his arms and legs like a madman, trying not to laugh, and he found himself suspended in midair by near-invisible wires and facing the perpetrator standing before him. "Look at who's playing games now," cooed Grell.

"I won't let you kill my master. I will protect him no matter what." Drocell Keinz tried to threaten, but in his dying voice, the words had little effect.

"Now, you're just being foolish. Mandalay's gone cuckoo! Do you understand? He's not the same master that you served, although I doubt he was any better before."

"That does not matter to me. I will not let anyone harm him."

Grell was now curious. Was this idiot being genuine? Or was it all an act? "I want to protect him! I won't let anyone touch him!" Grell mimicked. "Why are you doing this? You have no obligations to him."

"I do." Drocell rasped forcefully. "He took my parents and me in when we came here from Germany, even though no one else would. He took care of me and raised me like a son even after my parents died. He was like a father to me. I owe him everything. I owe him my li—"

Drocell's words were suddenly cut short when a huge barrel of wheat was brought down upon his head from behind him. He more or less crumpled under the weight, his knee joints breaking off completely and the rest of his body cracking to pieces. Drocell fell to the ground, and the wires ceased to hold Grell prisoner, and he dropped down in a most unfashionable manner. Drocell lay, twitching among the grains of wheat scattered everywhere, and his head spun 180◦ to look upwards. Even when he saw Mandalay, his "precious" master, looking down at him deliriously, holding the remnants of the broken barrel, he seemed not to understand.

"Ha!" Mandalay sneered. "I raised you like my son? I was like a father to you? Surely you are joking because I don't recall ever having gone to that much liberty to take care of you. To me, you were just a way to keep my daughter's mouths shut and away from my business. Those silly dolls that you made for them were the only value that you ever had to me. I always knew you thought highly of me, but I never could have imagined the extent to which you deluded yourself. Well, to you I say, good riddance and good night!"

With that said, the crazed man made a move to escape from the kitchen, and that was when Grell Sutcliffe's chainsaw of death was finally brought to good use, and cut clean through Mandalay in one felled swoop.

Grell relished in the splatter of red that dyed his pale skin a deep crimson. He grinned, pulling the chainsaw from the body and bringing it down, over and over again, until Mr. Mandalay was nothing more than an unidentifiable pile of red flesh and Grell was thoroughly dyed crimson.

Grell smiled to himself, wiping his glasses on his bloody coat and smoothing out his bloody, clotted hair. He tossed his beloved reaper's scythe to the side, letting it clatter onto the kitchen's tile floor, before he threw his head back and laughed.

Drocell was horrified.

His father, his only family, the man who he had respected and loved and cherished for all his life, was now a pile of meat at the feet of a crimson-clad stranger. Grell Sutcliffe laughed, a harsh, biting and crazed sound, making Drocell quake with fear, for he knew he would be next. He tried to force himself to stand, but his current lack of legs made it impossible.

He, with a weak flick of his wrist, cast his puppet strings at Grell. Grell simply grinned, his sharpened teeth menacing in the fading evening light, and Grell allowed his arms and legs to be immobilized at his sides.

"You violated our contract, reaper," Drocell pointed out, the voice he meant to be strong and meaningful coming out weak and small, with a waver at the end of his sentences that betrayed his urge to cry. "You made him suffer."

Grell shrugged, giggling when he felt some of the strings cut into his flesh, feeling warm blood drip down his sides and the familiar sting of pain. "He died on the first hit."

"Why did you stab him so many times, then?"

"I wanted a bit of fun, is all. Look how lovely this room is, now, all dyed in red," Grell sang, tipping his head back and laughing. "And look at yourself; you're bathed in gorgeous, lovely red, Drocell, from your head to your toes." Drocell suddenly realized that he was covered in blood, the blood of his father.

Drocell cried out, the strings slipping from his fingers, allowing Grell to go free. Drocell furiously and uselessly swiped at his body and his bloody clothes, frantic, and he used his arms to drag himself away from Grell. Grell grinned, his green eyes hidden behind the glint of his glasses, and he picked the chainsaw up from its place in the kitchen tile.

Drocell choked on his own tears. He had only cried once before, when his parents had died, and the sensation was unfamiliar. The sobs caught in his throat, and he was terrified to let them out, lest the crimson reaper hear them and take them as a weakness. He felt Grell behind him, but he still uselessly dragged himself away from the monster of a reaper, tears escaping from his bleary eyes. He had loved Mandalay, he had cared for Mandalay.

He had sold his life to Grell for Mandalay's protection.

And yet, Mandalay cared little—if he even cared at all—for Drocell. He treated Drocell like a toy to discard, overworking him and overusing him until Drocell was finally useless. Even in his last moments, he had chosen to protect his pride and tell Drocell off, tell Drocell that he did not love him, rather than allow Drocell to protect him.

Drocell was utterly confused.

Drocell felt Grell's blood-warmed hand clutch at his hair and pull him, tossing him onto the oak dining table like a doll. Drocell, without his legs, was helpless. He cast puppet strings at Grell, but Grell snapped them in half with his bare hands.

"Now, my lovely puppet, I wonder what color you bleed," Grell purred. Drocell screamed as he felt the chainsaw dig into his arm, slicing it clean off. Though no blood leaked from it, and sawdust flew in the air, Grell was pleased. "Not a single drop of red. Would it be worth it to kill you with this chainsaw? Or should I just burn you, and watch your ashes float to heaven? You wished for death in exchange for your Master's painless end. You're mine, Drocell Keinz." Grell grasped at Drocell's throat. Although there was no use in strangling someone who did not need to breathe, he was able to hold Drocell, flailing and screaming, still, while he watched the cinematic record play back.

It started as a teenager; Drocell, his fluffed, orange hair making him stand out from a crowd. Grell instantly noticed Mr. Mandalay, fat, ugly and balding, with two equally ugly girls at his side. Drocell was hunched over a table, his blue eyes cast intently on a piece of wood. Grell watched as Drocell took up a small carving knife, bringing it down on the rectangle of wood. He hacked out a rough shape, and, his eyes concentrated and his pale pink lips pursed together, began to detail on the wood.

A few swift flicks of the knife made a doll's hair, two jabs and a curve made eyes and a smilling mouth. He smoothed out her cheeks with the knife and made the curve of her neck. He carved folds in her clothing, buttons on her blouse, ribbons on her dress; he made a perfect little girl.

Grell was never one to appreciate the arts. But, as he watched Drocell, completely at ease, submerged in his work, he let his jaw go slack. His eyes were wide when Drocell, a shy smile gracing his lips, finally held the finished doll up for inspection. He presented it to one of the young ladies at Mandalay's side, bowing his head respectfully.

Before the girl fully grasped the toy, she let out a shriek. Drocell jumped back, and quickly looked at Mandalay for an answer. His eyes were wide.

"B-blood!" the girl cried. "Blood! It's…it's blood!" she screamed, over and over. The doll lay on the floor, and Drocell finally noticed a small patch of red on her dress. He inspected his fingers, gasping when he realized that he had cut his right thumb.

Blood trickled down his finger from the shallow cut. He had not felt it while he was making the doll and, now that he was aware of it, it hurt terribly.

Mandalay looked wildly from his hysterical daughter to the dumbfounded and frightened Drocell. He, his teeth bared, raised a large hand in the air, and Grell watched as Drocell automatically bit his lip and closed his eyes.

_Crack!_

The sound was so loud, it reminded Grell of a whip cracking in the air. Grell jumped as he watched Drocell crumple to the ground, breathing heavily but not crying, as Mandalay delivered blow after blow after blow upon the frail young man. Finally, with one last, heavy kick, he left Drocell, wheezing and clutching his bloody chest, on the ground, beckoning his daughters out of the room. Drocell's breathing came in ragged, awkward gasps, as he dragged himself along the floor towards his bed. Before the memory faded away completely, Grell heard a trembling, small voice begin to sing.

"London…bridge…is falling…down…"

Grell was speechless.

He had known death, he had known starvation, he had known cruelty, but there was something particularly haunting and troubling about Mandalay beating defenseless Drocell nearly unconscious. Grell shook his head, gritting his sharp teeth, willing the unpleasant and all too unfamiliar emotion of guilt and pity away.

Grell found himself staring at Drocell, the real, current Drocell, Drocell's eyes wide with fear and his broken body quaking beneath Grell's. Grell lifted his body off Drocell's, and let go of Drocell's throat. He noticed, with guilt gnawing at his heart, that Drocell was crying.

His blue eyes were cold and full of hate, but tears spilled over the lids, smearing Drocell's make up down his cheeks. Grell instinctively reached out, brushing his slender fingers over Drocell's cheek to wipe away the tears, but he felt Drocell pull away from him.

"Don't touch me," Drocell begged.

Grell took an uneasy breath, looking oddly at Drocell. The man—was it even a man?—the puppet's legs were torn off, the ball sockets of his knees exposed, and his porcelain face was cracked. His hair was matted in his master's blood, and some of his fingers were missing. Drocell's arm had been sliced off by Grell's blade.

"I thought you were going to kill me." Drocell said dejectedly.

"…Do you want to die, Drocell Keinz?" Grell asked quietly.

"I don't know anymore. The only reason I was alive, I was taught, was to serve my master. Without a master…I don't know what there is to live for."

"Drocell…" Grell muttered. He shrugged and crossed his arms. "I don't know. You've ruined the mood, somewhat, and I will gain no pleasure in killing you. Besides, you don't even bleed," Grell held up Drocell's missing and yet bloodless arm for inspection.

"I have no life," Drocell said bitterly, "as I am a puppet. I am not a human. Kill me, reaper. Put my useless existence to an end."

"Drocell Keinz, you are still mine. You said I could kill you; therefore, you have your life to me. With your life in my hands, I can decide what I want to do with you. You're my puppet now, Drocell." Grell smiled to himself, but Drocell noticed it was no longer a sadistic, mad grin; it was sad, quiet smile, one of pity, of understanding. Drocell looked up at Grell, pathetic tears still pouring down his face, and he choked on them as he felt Grell gently wrap arms around him and lift his motionless body from the table. Grell held him tightly in one arm, and retrieved his other body parts, still twitching, from the ground. Grell heaved a sigh, bending down a final time to retrieve his reaper's scythe, and he quietly left the room, Drocell Keinz in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: we hope you're enjoying the story so far. ;u; leave critique, please! We aren't sure about Grell or Undertaker or Drocell's character. This is a small update, but ChaosLinen has been busy with German Classes and Moronic-Muffin is busy with derps.

The stars were already illuminating the sky above him as Grell stepped out of the ruins of the mansion. Keeping a firm grip on Drocell, he began to make his way along the path back the way he came. After trudging forward for a good fifteen minutes, he began to wonder what exactly he was supposed to with the limp, damaged body in his arms. Obviously, if he took him to any regular doctor, they would just go berserk and not do much good. Finally, he remembered a particular silver-haired person with a Cheshire-grin that might be able to help – the Undertaker.

By the time Grell and his new companion made it back to London, it was already well past midnight. The street lights flickered gently as he walked through the silent, deserted streets that would soon become bustling marketplaces and squares in a few hours as the dawn of a new day arrived. Finally, he reached the familiar street where the Undertaker's Mortician Parlour was located. He gently set Drocell, who appeared to be asleep or unconscious at the very least, down against the side of the building. Then, Grell tried to enter through the front door, only to find that it was bolted shut. He tried rapping gently, but there was no response. Then, when he had given up and decided to find a small alley someplace to stay for the rest of the night, the door suddenly started to creak open with a particularly unpleasant screeching noise and the smell of death and formaldehyde wafted out.

"Hello, my little dearies," crooned the voice in the darkness behind the frame of the partly-open door.

"Undertaker," Grell huffed, in his usual sarcasm-infused tone. "I need you to help me fix someone up."

"Why, yes, my dearie," giggled Undertaker. "Anything for you, as long as you give me my payment."

Some time later, Undertaker was bent over on the floor, rolling and laughing like a mad man.

"I met my part of the deal," Grell said a bit tiredly, "Now, you better keep yours, or I can introduce you to my lovely chainsaw."

"Yes, yes," replied the Undertaker, regaining his normal, slightly less loopy demeanor. "Right away. Who is that patient you want me to see?"

"Him." Grell gestured to Drocell, who remained as lifeless as a doll, lying against a coffin in the corner of the room.

"Ahh…" the Undertaker commented, "Well, he certainly does look torn up pretty badly, but it's nothing that I, the Undertaker, cannot fix."

Undertaker sauntered over to Drocell, lifted him up, and then took him into the room behind the counter. Grell followed, half concerned and half curious about what exactly Undertaker was going to do. Immediately, he exclaimed in disgust and pinched his nose. Then, he leaned against the furthest wall.. Undertaker lay Drocell down on a wooden table that looked as if it had been stained over and over with a particular dark fluid that had permeated through the surface. The now somewhat focused Undertaker bustled around, relighting some candles that had gone out, and grabbing some materials from various drawers and cabinets. Then, he brought all the materials he had gathered and dropped them on a small, rolling stand beside the table. He paused a moment as if he were examining a broken toy and considering how to fix it.

He picked up a scapel.

"First, we will have to cut him completely open and see exactly what's wrong."

Undertaker turned slowly towards Drocell, and then suddenly slammed the blade down into his chest without warning. The horrible cracking sound of porcelain resounded against the thin walls as what remained of Drocell's chest caved in.

Shocked and oddly, quite outraged, Grell jumped up and was about to grab hold of the Undertaker's unfashionable, tattered robes and strangle him when a wheezing sound began to come from the man on the table who was little more now than a fine, but shattered, work of porcelain. Grell paused.

"Hllll mmm," came the discernible voice, before his lace-adorned eyelids fluttered closed heavily.

"As I thought," Undertaker tutted, going back to work as Grell stood staring, agast, "The straw he was stuffed with is rotting, and… Goodness me! There are termites everywhere!"

Undertaker jumped back momentarily, brushing furiously at his hair and robes. He then took an exaggerated, slow step forward, as if preparing himself for some daunting task. He grabbed a trowel from the pile of tools and started, gingerly, to scoop the contents of Drocell's innards into a basin. At one point, when he had removed most of the spoiled material, the trowel clunked on something that sounded metallic. Undertaker reached in and found a small, silver pocket watch with an intricate, floral pattern engraved on the outside. He could feel it pulsating gently in his palm with each tick.

"We wouldn't want that to get misplaced now." he giggled. It seemed a little rusty, so to protect it he quickly snipped a piece of purple satin and wrapped it up before setting it back in. Then, he went to a large, mahogany coffin near the exit and opened it up to reveal a bed of dried red roses. He had saved the leftovers from all the coffins he had been asked to decorate and fix up for viewings. To tell the truth, Undertaker didn't have the slightest notion why he had saved all them in the first place. Perhaps, it was as a bit of sentiment. If Undertaker ever died, he would have like to been buried in a bed of roses, but he knew he never would. Regardless, that didn't matter anymore. Undertaker scooped up a bunch of the slightly sweet-fragranced petals in his arms and brought them over to Drocell. Then, he began to fill his body with the lovely things.

When the coffin was empty, and Drocell's body was at last full, Undertaker stood back for a moment to admire his own work. He grabbed some paints and quickly touched up on the chipped fleur-de-lis on Drocell's cheek.

"Hmm, he looks a lot better now. That seems to be all I can do for you."

"All you can do? What about that huge gaping hole in his chest? And his arms and legs?" exclaimed Grell, who was quite exhausted at this point and in need of a good nap.

"Ah, yes," answered the Undertaker. Then, he seemed to taken on a more serious, rarely seen demeanor. "Well, I simply fix broken things up a little and make then a little prettier, a little more presentable to the world. But I am not a doll or puppet maker nor a craftsman. It is beyond my ability to craft the porcelain pieces needed for his outer body."

"And knowing that already, you broke him apart even more?" Grell was enraged.

Undertaker reverted back to his usual drunk-like state and giggled a little.. "I am truly sorry~ For now, all I can do is wrap him up with a bit of these strips that I use for my patients that are missing a little too much to stitch right up. I will see if I can find you someone who can help you, but all you can do is try your best to keep him together. However, you must admit it's at least a little better that he's not rotting apart from the inside anymore, eh?"


	4. Authors' Note

Hey! First off, we would like to thank you for your kind reviews! They were so nice and they really warmed out heaaaartsssss. However, Moronic-Muffin is trying to juggle three different fanfictions at once, a Homestuck fanfiction, another Black Butler fanfiction and an original story, so she's pretty swamped with writing ;; also, ChaosLinen has been taking summer classes so we never had time to write. even more, we're starting school again, and being in all Honors Classes and several extracurricular activities, it's hard to keep up with this. We promise to continue writing this, even if the updates might slow down a lot, to perhaps only one chapter a month. Thank you so much for reading though, you don't even know how happy you guys make us ;_; we hope you enjoy the story, even if we're still figuring out the central plot, haha!

We promise to update sooooon~


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